The Heat is On-White Collar (P/E/N)
Title:The Heat is One
Fandom:White Collar
Rating:PGish
Notes: Spoilers through season 1 just to be safe
Fudged the timeline just a bit to make this work.
Thanks to Lisa for the read over, she's my easy beta. My hard core one has abandoned me for Ar-kansas alas. Any mistakes, clearly my own.
For picfor1000
this is my picture
The Heat is On
The city is in the middle of the worst heat wave since nineteen ninety-nine. At least according to Mozzie. Neal wasn’t in New York then. Eleven years ago, before Mozzie and Adler and Kate, before Peter and El, he wasn’t even Neal, at least not the version he is now. Neal is a master at reinvention, both dramatic and subtle, it’s part of being good at what he does, even now-- especially now--but the marks of the people that matter always lay under the surface.
The heat goes on and on. They have rolling blackouts and an already short-tempered city gets even more frustrated. Non essential government buildings have shut down to conserve energy and while the FBI qualifies as essential, even the white collar criminals have either fled the city or are too limp to do much. They don’t have anything vital on their desk and Hughes shoos them all out. Neal looks back at the dark, quiet room, an odd shiver going through him. He’s pissed at himself because he doesn’t know when the FBI had become one of the constants in his life. Peter yeah. Peter is a given, has been for years but the rest is enough to get him kicked out of the Con Artists union. Mozzie would be the first one to call for the motion.
He thinks Kate would laugh at him though, kiss him and tell him she always knew he wanted to play secret agent man. He thinks Kate, when he finds her will laugh at a lot of things about his life now, not the least, Peter. She teased him about his crush plenty when Peter was chasing him. He doesn’t wonder how it will all work out. Kate and this thing with Peter and El. He doesn’t wonder because that would imply there are options and Neal can’t accept that. He can’t let go of any of them, so it has to work out.
He paints in the nude for a while but the heat saps any creativity he has, plus he’s giving ‘sweating over his work’ a literal meaning, so he cleans up and puts his supplies away, then wanders the loft listlessly. He’s got the house to himself. June’s gone to friends in cooler places. Mozzie refuses to leave Thursday--his 'oasis in a desert of sweaty, desperate people'-- communicating with Neal by phone and text only. When they do talk, he mostly rants about either global warming or about a conspiracy involving the government, Con Ed and some secret cabal. The air in the loft rests on Neal like a damp blanket. He tunes Mozzie out, goes and sits on the balcony where it’s still hot but at least he can breathe. He stares over the city washed in almost white light from the sun, watches the heat shimmer and ripple over New York. When the temperature hits a hundred and three, he eyes the anklet and dreams of snow covered mountains and ski chalets.
When the temptation gets to much, he throws on clothes and makes a call to the Marshalls. He knows they’ll call to get the okay and he knows its guaranteed. It’s a familiar routine, something else that’s become a constant. It’s not that Peter and El’s place is cooler; even though they have the windows open, and fans going all over the house; it’s just that somehow the sight of Elizabeth sipping ice tea in a thin cotton tank top and panties, moisture beading and drying against her skin as she stands in front of the fan, makes him appreciate the heat a little more. She smiles at him, eyes bright, skin gleaming --glowing with sweat and it’s easier to remember why he’s still here and not on a plane to somewhere else.
Satch thumps his tail in greeting, not moving from in front of his own personal fan. Peter doesn’t stir from his spot under the window either when Neal comes in, just glances up and gives him a half smile. “So, it’s not cooler where the other half lives.”
Neal strips out of his suit, hanging it in the hall closet and looks between the two of them. Elizabeth is sucking on a cube of ice, lips pursed and wet, expression blissful. Peter has stripped off his tee and sweat damp boxers give Neal his own wet underwear show. Something in his look--Peter would say lasciviousness, though Neal prefers appreciative--sets them both to shaking their heads.
Elizabeth laughs. “No way, it’s too hot. “ But she still gives him a wink.
He tries the pout even though he agrees for the most part. “How about this? Skiing, hot tubs, toddies, sex in front of a roaring fire.”
Peter sighs. “How about you stop plotting? You’re making me hotter.”
Neal holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. St. Moritz. That’s all I’m saying.”
Peter’s head flops back down and Neal will swear he hears a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “In three years, I’ll happily let the two of you drag me through the Segantini, until then, you’ll have to close your eyes and think cold thoughts.”
Neal finds his own spot under a window and Elizabeth brings him a glass of iced tea, mostly ice. Her lips are still cool from her own drink when she drops a kiss on his forehead. He drifts off to images of snow.
The day he gets his anklet off, he buys three tickets to Switzerland, open because Peter’s caseload is crazy now, and thanks to Hughes, Peter and their solve rate, the F.B.I. is willing to hire him as a civilian consultant. He’s still not quite a G-man, but he gets his own shiny metal badge and it’s almost as much fun as pulling a con and walking away, except now he never has to look over his shoulder and that’s good. More though, he gets Elizabeth’s smiles and the light of pride in Peter’s eyes, and that’s better.
Fandom:White Collar
Rating:PGish
Notes: Spoilers through season 1 just to be safe
Fudged the timeline just a bit to make this work.
Thanks to Lisa for the read over, she's my easy beta. My hard core one has abandoned me for Ar-kansas alas. Any mistakes, clearly my own.
For picfor1000
this is my picture
The Heat is On
The city is in the middle of the worst heat wave since nineteen ninety-nine. At least according to Mozzie. Neal wasn’t in New York then. Eleven years ago, before Mozzie and Adler and Kate, before Peter and El, he wasn’t even Neal, at least not the version he is now. Neal is a master at reinvention, both dramatic and subtle, it’s part of being good at what he does, even now-- especially now--but the marks of the people that matter always lay under the surface.
The heat goes on and on. They have rolling blackouts and an already short-tempered city gets even more frustrated. Non essential government buildings have shut down to conserve energy and while the FBI qualifies as essential, even the white collar criminals have either fled the city or are too limp to do much. They don’t have anything vital on their desk and Hughes shoos them all out. Neal looks back at the dark, quiet room, an odd shiver going through him. He’s pissed at himself because he doesn’t know when the FBI had become one of the constants in his life. Peter yeah. Peter is a given, has been for years but the rest is enough to get him kicked out of the Con Artists union. Mozzie would be the first one to call for the motion.
He thinks Kate would laugh at him though, kiss him and tell him she always knew he wanted to play secret agent man. He thinks Kate, when he finds her will laugh at a lot of things about his life now, not the least, Peter. She teased him about his crush plenty when Peter was chasing him. He doesn’t wonder how it will all work out. Kate and this thing with Peter and El. He doesn’t wonder because that would imply there are options and Neal can’t accept that. He can’t let go of any of them, so it has to work out.
He paints in the nude for a while but the heat saps any creativity he has, plus he’s giving ‘sweating over his work’ a literal meaning, so he cleans up and puts his supplies away, then wanders the loft listlessly. He’s got the house to himself. June’s gone to friends in cooler places. Mozzie refuses to leave Thursday--his 'oasis in a desert of sweaty, desperate people'-- communicating with Neal by phone and text only. When they do talk, he mostly rants about either global warming or about a conspiracy involving the government, Con Ed and some secret cabal. The air in the loft rests on Neal like a damp blanket. He tunes Mozzie out, goes and sits on the balcony where it’s still hot but at least he can breathe. He stares over the city washed in almost white light from the sun, watches the heat shimmer and ripple over New York. When the temperature hits a hundred and three, he eyes the anklet and dreams of snow covered mountains and ski chalets.
When the temptation gets to much, he throws on clothes and makes a call to the Marshalls. He knows they’ll call to get the okay and he knows its guaranteed. It’s a familiar routine, something else that’s become a constant. It’s not that Peter and El’s place is cooler; even though they have the windows open, and fans going all over the house; it’s just that somehow the sight of Elizabeth sipping ice tea in a thin cotton tank top and panties, moisture beading and drying against her skin as she stands in front of the fan, makes him appreciate the heat a little more. She smiles at him, eyes bright, skin gleaming --glowing with sweat and it’s easier to remember why he’s still here and not on a plane to somewhere else.
Satch thumps his tail in greeting, not moving from in front of his own personal fan. Peter doesn’t stir from his spot under the window either when Neal comes in, just glances up and gives him a half smile. “So, it’s not cooler where the other half lives.”
Neal strips out of his suit, hanging it in the hall closet and looks between the two of them. Elizabeth is sucking on a cube of ice, lips pursed and wet, expression blissful. Peter has stripped off his tee and sweat damp boxers give Neal his own wet underwear show. Something in his look--Peter would say lasciviousness, though Neal prefers appreciative--sets them both to shaking their heads.
Elizabeth laughs. “No way, it’s too hot. “ But she still gives him a wink.
He tries the pout even though he agrees for the most part. “How about this? Skiing, hot tubs, toddies, sex in front of a roaring fire.”
Peter sighs. “How about you stop plotting? You’re making me hotter.”
Neal holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. St. Moritz. That’s all I’m saying.”
Peter’s head flops back down and Neal will swear he hears a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “In three years, I’ll happily let the two of you drag me through the Segantini, until then, you’ll have to close your eyes and think cold thoughts.”
Neal finds his own spot under a window and Elizabeth brings him a glass of iced tea, mostly ice. Her lips are still cool from her own drink when she drops a kiss on his forehead. He drifts off to images of snow.
The day he gets his anklet off, he buys three tickets to Switzerland, open because Peter’s caseload is crazy now, and thanks to Hughes, Peter and their solve rate, the F.B.I. is willing to hire him as a civilian consultant. He’s still not quite a G-man, but he gets his own shiny metal badge and it’s almost as much fun as pulling a con and walking away, except now he never has to look over his shoulder and that’s good. More though, he gets Elizabeth’s smiles and the light of pride in Peter’s eyes, and that’s better.